


A Very Strider Clusterfuck

by orphan_account



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Guardiancest, M/M, Post-SBurb AU, Post-Sburb, Stridercest - Freeform, but there will be sweet guardiansex, dave and dirk are a non-sexual pairing in this fic, i'm not gonna write about teenage boys fucking okay, more tags will be added as needed, well fuck
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-02-10
Updated: 2013-02-19
Packaged: 2017-11-28 19:11:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,569
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/677895
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You’ve taken to being generally confused by Bro Strider. It required a full universe shift and hours upon hours of explanations from your respective siblings to get the two of you to socialize in the first place, and even that experience had been strange more than it has anything else. Bro—your Dirk, but not quite—lives with you now. With you, Dirk, and that brat who borrows your name.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Let's hear it for alpha!Dave's POV, wooo.

**{ IF IT’S NOT HOWIE MANDEL’S PISS WATER, I’M DRINKING IT }**

You’ve taken to being generally confused by Bro Strider. It required a full universe shift and hours upon hours of explanations from your respective siblings to get the two of you to socialize in the first place, and even that experience had been strange more than it has anything else. Bro—your Dirk, but not quite—lives with you now. With you, Dirk, and that brat who borrows your name.

You call that kid Dave the Second. He is more than a little annoyed with you at any given time, but you think he kind of likes the way you tease him.

You get the sense you’re a more affectionate brother than Bro is, which sort of floors you.

It had taken a lot of adjusting to get used to being with the three of them, but since neither you nor Bro were willing to give up the loft you’d grown so accustomed to in your respective lives, you have since settled on working together.

He’s a slob, but you’re not much better. To his credit, he keeps the sink empty in exchange for an immaculate dishwasher to house his shitty fireworks. The two of you have nightly battles over what food to get for dinner, since he keeps swords where actual fucking food would normally go. You’re never going to get the refrigerator to actually serve its purpose.

You regard his sword-hoarding with the same amused disdain you give to his dick puppets. _“They’re Smuppets and we’re fucking keeping them. You have a problem with that? Find someone who gives a shit.”_

Dirk seems to like Bro, which works for you. You don’t know Dirk that well yourself, having never met him before your death in your original universe, but you’re as impressed by the kid as it’s possible to be. He’s a genius, you can see that. He doesn’t have your experience, but he’s at least as intelligent as you are, if not vastly more so. It occasionally occurs to you that both Dirk and Bro are probably more capable than either you or Dave the Second could ever be.

It would be disconcerting if you didn’t love Dirk and look down on Bro in equally large quantities.

The knowledge that Bro is able to give him some sort of companionship that you can’t quite muster—for a kid who looks at you like you’ve failed to meet his expectations, no less—is a grudging comfort.

Dirk spends more time with Bro than he does with you. You wonder sometimes if he’s avoiding you, but when you chill alone with him, it’s always fun. He shows you his robots. You hum and hah appreciatively like the good little shit you have to be. You draw him god awful SBaHJ-style renditions of famous paintings.

It’s a beautiful sort of symbiosis.

You share the single bedroom with Dave the Second. Both Dirk and Bro sleep on the futon. One night you woke to get a glass of water. You stood against the wall as you watched Dirk cling to Bro, Dirk still blissfully unaware of your presence even as your own shielded gaze fell upon another pair of sunglasses pointed at you. 

Dirk was crying— _shaking_ , really. The seventeen-year-old boy genius that you never got to know but consider yourself responsible for suffers from nightmares that he doesn’t tell you about. You can’t even deny that it stings to know he depends on not-Dirk to help him through it.

He won’t tell you about Sburb.

You ask him every now and then. He brushes the questions off with his wry sort of humor, so unlike that shared by you and Dave the Second. For the two of you, there’s no sense, just a degradation into an endless idiot spiral, the end of which is a long list of business cards from shitty Chinese food restaurants with the words ‘this is stupid’ written on them in red. You can hear the pain in Dirk’s voice, though. You never had a chance to make him happy or let him feel like a kid.

You hate meteors. You hate meteors and their arbitrary, timeline-fuck bullshit.

Dave the Second makes a good roommate. You don’t really get along, but you have a grudging affection for him that grows by the day. He’s sixteen, a year younger than Dirk. He is effectively you, which makes conversation easier than it ever has any right to be. He’d be funnier if you didn’t already get the punchlines to his shitty jokes. He’s also in accordance with you that a bedroom should be a veritable fucking overgrowth of cords and electronic devices used to maintain the steady stream irony that the two of you need to survive. The two of you mix together sometimes on your turntables.

You’ve also been known to dress up in scarves and reenact short plays with the most inane dialogue you can manage during improvisation. On more than one occasion, you’ve found yourselves suddenly Parisian in the middle of an Italian one-act.

It’s an art form. 

You ended up in a strange universe that both Dirk and Dave the Second refer to as C1 for reasons you don’t really fucking care enough to ask about. What matters is that the apartment isn’t yours and it isn’t Bro’s. You aren’t sure why, but it seems like it was set up to accommodate the four of you as a whole unit. There’s not nearly enough space, but it has all the shit you both collected without the useless bachelor paraphernalia that builds up when one lives alone with his younger brother who also doesn’t give a fuck.

Occasionally Dave the Second, Dirk, and Bro flee to the roof. They spend hours up there strifing while you work on intentionally low-budget SBaHJ films. The result is that Bro is ripped, Dirk is tending toward really fucking buff for a kid, and Dave the Second is getting the toned slenderness that your side of the Strider gene pool has managed to achieve. You’re starting to feel flabby in comparison.

The films you’re focused on making are the epitome of horrible and you’ve never been more proud. They’re not social commentary anymore; the Batterwitch doesn’t exist in this universe. You can’t actually shake the desire to make them, though. They’re just so gloriously goddamn terrible.

You’ve started to do Smuppet cameos. Bro noticed after the third release. He gives you strange looks whenever he knows you’re working on a project. You get the sense that he’s flattered. You’d like to say you don’t give a rat’s ass, so you will. That’s exactly what you’ll say.

Dave the Second echoes your thoughts sometimes, saying the things out loud that time has taught you to hold back. It’s almost refreshing, the way he goes at Bro. He’s like a little dog. You don’t like to admit that he’s sort of you when you start thinking like that about him.

Dave the Second and Bro effectively wreck the living room at least once a week. Dirk watches silently, better at hiding his emotions than other-you or other-him. You’re much better at affecting the movie star pompousness you’d gotten used to. The media ate that shit up once. It served you well then. It’s sort of a habit now. You’re not stalwart like the bastards you live with. You’re a prima-motherfucking-donna and these bitches will recognize.

Or some fucking thing.

Bro catches you alone in the kitchen one day and calls you princess. You’d be lying if you said you didn’t encourage him. Ironically, of course. You wonder when your life became this strange little circus.

[ + ]

“Are you gonna finish that, Blondie?” He gestures to your opened but untouched bottle of apple juice. Dickhead's hair is almost as light as yours, but fuck him. You're not gonna bring it up.

“Apocalypse is already over, man. No more deviant behavior from me. I wouldn’t want to rip a hole in space-time and send us plummeting into an abyss where Dave motherfucking Strider doesn’t drink his sweet ambrosia. Fuck, oceans would overflow, mountains would collapse, volcanoes all over the world erupt at once. What kind of irresponsible son of a bitch do you take me for? I’m looking out for you, man. I got your back.”

You’re not sure when you started gesticulating dramatically, but you don’t hate it. You down a liberal quantity of the juice before smacking your lips at him as loudly and wetly as you can manage.

He’s a little older than you—by seven years to be precise—having survived longer in his timeline than you did in yours. He manages to look all of his thirty-nine years as he watches you with his impervious, untouchable eyes. His face is blank as usual, prompting you to think up as many ways as you can to get him to break form. You haven’t succeeded yet, but you will. He stands very still before you, typical of that douche.

You wink. He lunges.

Yeah, you’re definitely regretting your lack of physical exercise. He’s fast as shit and has absconded with your juice before you can even react.

You’re not even sure he actually likes apple juice.

“God fucking damn it,” you say to an empty kitchen.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is what happens when I can't sleep. I clean the kitchen at 1AM and then I bullshit some material. Hope you like it.

**{ IS IT SELF-LOATHING IF IT IS LITERALLY YOURSELF STANDING IN FRONT OF YOU? }**

This is stupid.

Your name is Dave Strider and you decided this approximately ten minutes ago when Dave the Second approached you with a focused stare behind his shades, broken sword in hand, and tossed a measured “Sup?” at you. He waited for you to respond for a moment before lifting the ½bladekind piece of shit onto his shoulder for emphasis. What the fuck is with this kid and breaking all the swords? No, really. He breaks all of them. It’d be impressive if it wasn’t so uncool.

You don’t even want to fight him. You just want to sigh and shake your head.

You’re not quite sure what it is that now compels you to stand on the roof, your own unbroken blade held aloft. You’re not a fighter, not anymore, and you like the reprieve. It’s awesome not dying. It’s awesome not having to kill anyone.

You don’t want to beat the shit out of this kid like you know you will if you take him on. He’s you. You know him and what he’s capable of. No amount of horror he could’ve gone through in that twisted mess of a game he played could make him your better after years of rebellion had taught you how to fight, to be cruel, and to win.

Also, he’s wielding that broken goddamn sword and you want to laugh or walk away or both.

You’re a machine, fine-tuned and well-oiled and all those other terms people use when they need a good handjob for their ego. You’re too fucking cool for this and you’re not beyond letting the kid think you’re a coward for walking away. Yeah, you tell yourself that. Somehow your feet don’t carry you away.

The reason you’re up here is to beat some sense into him, let him see the light. Show him that the Way of the Strider is to transcend powerplay crap and take advantage of every opportunity by playing the system. Ironically, of course. You’re a paragon of irony, a legendary filmmaker whose wealth comes from selling shitty movies to near subhumanly idiotic patrons. You rub elbows with the wealth and get favors from your celebrity “friends”. You milk that shit for all it’s worth. You are unstoppable.

You have so many irons in the fire. It’s unreal. Unreal iron.

You’re this fucking demigod of irony and the little shit in front of you would rather fight you than try to master the subtle art of network-control.

You’re almost offended.

You’re busy kissing your own ass when he lunges for you. You barely see him coming. You knew he could flash step, that shit doesn’t shock you. You don’t expect him to also be a cheating little fuck.

Oh, who are you kidding, yes you do.

He’s thrown his half-blade at you before you’ve tuned into the fight, and it’s all you can do to raise your sword for a block as it connects. The clang of metal on metal brings you into focus, and as his weapon falls uselessly to the ground, you’re already turning before he can get at you.

Yeah, you can flash step, too.

 _Faster_.

You knock him sideways with the hilt of your crappy katana. He hits the ground with a grunt that you know he didn’t want you to hear.

You wish you could explain to him the irony of actually indulging in expressions of emotion, and the double-irony of tapping into real shit that you’re really feeling to really portray the aggrandized stuff. That would break something between you, though. Some sort of fourth wall style of separation that allows you to think of him as almost a little brother instead of an iteration of yourself that you’re faintly embarrassed by. You want to improve him because he reflects poorly on you, but fuck that. You’d rather beat him into next week with rooftop swordfights than come to terms with a personal inadequacy you are absolutely _not_ feeling over him.

He’s gotten to his feet and moved for his sword. Your superior speed puts your foot there before he can even think of getting a hand on the blade, and pins it to the roof firmly. It’s upon being full-body tackled and knocked off your feet that you realize he managed to trick you.

“Fuck—,” you hiss out before you’re on your back, the wind knocked out of you. No. Hell no. You saw him move, saw his trajectory. He was headed straight for that sword.

You’re gasping for breath, tempted to get up but far more inclined to just lay the hell still until you can breathe again. He pulls your sword out of your hand before you realize he’s doing it, your body still puffing helplessly as you try to draw in steady breaths. The sharp edge of the katana is at your throat and he’s practically growling. You admit, it’s faintly menacing.

You feel a surge of something akin to pride, but closer to irritated shame over his unironic intensity. What a prick.

“Just look at that mouth. You’re the slut at a cock party. It’s you, bro,” he starts, his face blank. “‘I’m Dave Strider and I suck dicks for a living. Would you like to sample my wares? Let me just get good and fish-lipped for you. No, sir, this cheek puffing is totally normal. Yes, it _does_ come free of charge, thank you for asking.’” His voice has vaulted into this obnoxious high pitched range. You’re torn between wanting to laugh at how amazingly awful-good it is and wanting to kick him square in the jaw.

Your chest stops heaving and you don’t bother to move. You used to have the spark in you to never take shit like this lying down, but you can’t quite bring yourself to care enough about winning to shake him off and stand. You’re not a petulant child, you’re not a child abuser, and you didn’t want to fight him in the first place. He’s still on top of you, though, one knee on your chest and the other in between your arm and ribcage.

You roll your eyes behind your shades. “Yeah, yeah, very cute, D2. Now get the fuck off me,” you shoot at him. There’s no real venom in your voice. “Also, you realize that all of that could have literally just been you talking about yourself.” It’s not a question. “I didn’t realize we had such lucrative hobbies, you and I. I’ll have to go to more cock parties to test out my newfound sluttiness.” You go wide eyed and pluck your shades from your face, batting your lashes at him as he sits above you, still threateningly perched with that sword at your throat. You smile as sweetly as you ever have, your voice seductive and melodic when you speak. “Would you like to sample my wares, _Dave_?” You purr his name.

He’s off you faster than you can track and you’re left alone on the roof with a katana falling harmlessly on your chest. A laugh dances its way out of your mouth and you lay there shaking with it.

It’s the first time you’ve laughed so hard since waking up in this universe.

[ + ]

Your name is Bro Strider and you have problems. About twenty of them, give or take, stacked on top of each other, in the hall closet. The problems in question: apple juice containers.

They’re the little resealable bottles. Each one has exactly one drink taken out. The one drink you allowed him before swiping them.

You started this expedition as a deeply ironic way of communicating your appreciation to your newfound housemate, one not-so-little Dave. You figure he gets the message, or at least you did at first.

His reactions toe the line between ironic and dumbfounded, and you’re not sure how to take him.

You get it, though, and that’s what matters. It’s tiers above what anyone else can possibly understand, little Dave and other-you included. Godly tiers. You are on a god tier of irony right about now, ascending and awakening, wrecking shit left and right.

What you’d been hoping to accomplish isn’t easy to put into words. You’re not actually sure why the fuck you’re doing this to him. Though you’re not keen on owning up to it, you guess it’s because you’re not sure what the fuck to do with him now that he’s here and has weaseled his way into your life. He has Dave’s face, and that bothers you, because it does things for you.

This future Dave (whom you call David in your head) is nothing like your little brother. He’s not the little punk you raised. He’s more like some sort of collective of experiences that could have just as easily come upon you, but he dealt with them in the way Dave would have, so he came out of it differently. He’s boisterous compared to the three of you—you, Dirk, and Dave—, but it’s all calculated.

You can practically see the wheels turning in his head, the way he plays the game. He’s better at it than you’ll ever be.

You _get_ him on a level that you didn’t expect. What’s more unexpected is that he seems to get you. He works with you. You feed off each other in your conversations, interactions, and the way you deal with the kids. He’s some sort of weird mirror of yourself that says shit you couldn’t have ever thought of.

You understand his whole indulgence of irony. He’s the biggest tool you’ve ever met, and he does it intentionally. He doesn’t even pretend it’s not part of his genuine personality. He plays that shit up and you can’t help but stand by, a little awestruck when he gets going. David (and he will always be _David_ to you, because you aren’t gonna indulge in any secret, semi-erotic, hero worship bullshit with someone you’re referring to by the same name as the kid you raised)—well, he impresses you.

You always knew Dave could be a great guy one day, though you haven’t said anything like that to him yourself and don’t know that you ever will. Something about seeing David be his cool, adult, ironically expressive self, unapologetically, kind of warms your heart in a way separate from the odd attraction you have to David. You kind of hope Dave does turn out like him. You’d be happy for him.

Yeah, you’re a sap. Whatever.

David’s your height. Though if you have to be specific, he is slightly shorter. Only slightly. He’s slender, you’re surprised by that. You thought Dave would grow into the more overtly muscular style of Dirk and yourself.

You aren’t some sort of hulking mass or anything, but your typical attire isn’t exactly meant to _not_ show off your muscles. Said muscles are pretty significant. The white, V-neck shirts that stretch tightly over your chest serve the dual purpose of making Dave think you’re an asshole and making Dirk think you’re some sort of walking shrine to his pending masculinity. Kid’s already pretty built, but he’ll grow more.

David tends toward more wiry muscles. You don’t doubt he could give you a good challenge during a strife, though, so you eye him appreciatively more than critically. _Good genes, different manifestations of them,_ you reason.

He has inexplicably refused all of your offers to strife with him.

You’re admittedly a little too fixated on David. His everything is interesting to you. The fact that he looks like a more mature Dave does creep you the fuck out when you catch yourself staring while he works on SBaHJ shit with that intense look in his cherry-red eyes, because your gaze doesn’t linger anywhere innocent for long. The only innocuous glances you throw him during those times are when you observe the tautness of his jaw, the physical tension achieved by doing something you’re passionately focused on. You watch him work and it fascinates you. He alchemizes 3D JPEG gear like it’s an art form, his hands tenderly caressing the ungodly terrible pixels as he stores them away for merchandise orders. You’re blown the fuck away.

He once made you a version of Lil Cal and gave it to you with an intent look on his face. He placed a hand on your shoulder, choked up a little as he said he was “proud of you, Pop,” and dropped that shit like it was hot, right the fuck in front of you. You think you’re probably in love.

Okay, not really in love, but definitely in awe. David’s pretty fucking badass. He does the Strider name good.

The only problem is the apple juice. Apple juices. Plural. Because that’s how pluralizing works.

What started as a way to fuck with him that would make Dave’s little prankster friend John cream his panties had turned into some sort of passive-aggressive attempt to get back at him for the effect he has on you. You steal his apple juice because you’re the kid in the playground, he’s you, and you’re rubbing sand in Sally’s hair.

You don’t know who the fuck Sally is or why the object of interest in your metaphor is female.

You’re the real Dirk Strider, and you want the D. Always have, always will.

But it’s not just anyone who can make Bro Strider consider noticing his kouhai.

You blink at the thought you just entertained and then stop bullshitting yourself. You’re not even gonna pretend you’re not a hell of a lot interested in David. You’d notice the fuck out of him. Notice him so hard. He’s everything you wanted your brother to be without actually being your brother.

Well, he is. Dave’s probably gonna look just like him in ten years. Okay, so he’s your brother. He’s also your son, technically. You don’t want to think too hard about either of those. Ever.

He has a nice ass.

You focus very hard on the pyramid of apple juice containers and try not to think about Dave’s ass. David’s. Fuck. The juice containers, they are your lifeline, a solitary pyramidal buoy keeping you grounded at some point of sanity in this sea of really fucked up family connections and weird, free-floating lust waves.

You need to give these back to him so they stop reminding you of your pettiness every time you try to get a goddamn shirt.

You can pass it off as an ironic gift. More importantly, you have a tiny closet in the hall that leads to the living room and you have swords and Smuppets that need a home. You can’t keep collecting his shit just because you don’t know how to stop.

You make a decision and go to the alchemiter, which is set up in Daveroom, home of the Daves.

It wasn’t hard to figure out his codes for that SBaHJ merch. You’re not modest about your infinitely superior intellect. Dirk has a chance of being your equal, since he is literally you. Dave and David will probably never be as competent as you two, though. They both are probably far more likely to make it in society if being a porn-toting bachelor with a shitty hat stops paying the bills, though. Of course, David’s got enough money that he’s set for life. You do, too.

You’re a rich man.

You’re also a skilled roboticist and a fucking genius. You alchemize an Unreal Air, holding it before it tries to fly out the open window.

You wait.

[ + ]

Your name is Dave Strider—the _real_ Dave Strider, age sixteen, not that shitty old man who won’t acknowledge your seniority—and you’re smugly amused.

You watched Bro do it. He knew you were there; he just didn’t give a fuck. You saw him band together a present— _“Is that fucking_ apple juice? _Seriously, Bro?”_ —and strap it to a beautifully horrendous JPEG skateboard. You recognize that Unreal Air. You were responsible for it. Your stupid ass other self only knows how to make it because he is you and therefore feeds on your brilliance.

Asshole.

When he was ready, he shot you a thumbs up, which you reciprocated.

Then, you waited for it.

Old Dave stepped into the living room. Bro let it fly.

The look on Old Dave’s face will keep you going for the rest of your life.

[ + ]

Your name is Dave Strider and what the fuck just happened.

No, you totally know what happened. You just don’t even know where to begin.

The moment you stepped into the living room from the kitchen, you’d felt something was off. There was a vibe in the room. A tension and an expectation. Upon glancing to your left, you laid eyes upon a pixelated skateboard flying at you. Slowly.

So. Fucking. Slowly.

The apple juice bomb it carried caught you the fuck off guard when you saw it. The whole thing rose above you, your face moving to follow its path. It was so goddamn slow. You were paralyzed by the slowness. Fucking rooted to the spot.

The next few things were a blur of...well, slow motion.

A Smuppet went sailing through the air, a pyramid of opened apple juice bottles descended upon you, and the only thing you could manage was an expression that will go down in the What the Fuck Encyclopedia: Strider Edition.

One eyebrow quirked, mouth opened in shock or horror or both, and your eyes widened behind your shades.

The bottlebomb fell. You were fucking coated before you thought to move.

You stand now in the entrance to your living room covered in fucking apple juice.

Your eyes spot Dave the Second and he’s smirking. You look to your side and eye Bro as he stands in the doorway, hands in his pockets.

“Hey,” he says evenly.

“Sup,” you respond. Your voice is level.

You can’t even say you’re pissed. You’re caught up in the majesty of the moment. This is practically a goddamn festival of stupid, and you’re smack in the middle of it. You’re a princess on a stage, except the stage is made of stained carpet and the princess is coated in what looks like urine. You’re sticky as hell.

You can’t tell if it’s overwhelming emotion at the beauty of it all, or sweet, burning AJ that makes your eyes well up and hurt suddenly.

You wipe away the stinging with a motion too quick for Dave the Second to follow, but slow enough that Bro’s posture shifts minutely.

He’s laughing at you. Well, insofar as Bro Strider would allow himself to laugh. A shift from one foot to the other is practically a cackle.

“Are you gonna finish that, Blondie?” he asks.

“You know what? I don’t think I will. You can have it.”

You wring out some of the juice and coat your hands in it as you walk toward the hall, patting him on the shoulder when you go by. You break into a grin at the way his eyebrow raises. Behind his shades, you think you see his eyes trained on your fingers and then on your own.

You continue walking. What you need is a shower. A shower, and a good long think about Bro Strider and how he makes no fucking sense to you.

A good long think about how he makes you smile.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Little bit of a switchup in terms of the general feel. I hope you like it. We get some Dirk POV and some emotional venting. I apologize in advance. I'm as surprised by this chapter as you are.

**{ IF WE CAN AVOID DEFINING INCEST OR NARCISSISM OR BOTH, THAT'D BE GREAT }**

Your name is Dirk Strider and you have never wished so badly for a bedroom in your life.

You’re beyond embarrassed. You’ve transcended shame and lighted upon utterly undignified. Can’t lose the self-respect you don’t have, you figure.

Bro sits beside you with a hand on your shoulder. You know he doesn’t do this very often, that he hasn’t done this with Dave since the kid was little. He’s in the process of trying to comfort you.

His hand is heavy and warm on your shoulder. It makes you want to cry more. It always makes you want to cry more when you’re next to him and making physical contact, because he understands you. He doesn’t know what you’ve been through, but he knows how your mind works.

He understands how your brain will dissect and invent and exacerbate—how you feel in a way other people simply can’t, because you process on a level they haven’t ever reached. You’re kind of vain. Whatever.

You’ve been sobbing for about twenty minutes. Sobbing and lapsing into silence and then sobbing again.

He makes some sort of low noise that’s meant to be comforting. Luckily, you know how to interpret his noises. You smile at the floor, unwilling to meet his eyes that aren’t shaded.

The color still unnerves you.

Never in your life have you ever met someone with eyes the same fiery orange as your own. Your own brother—David, Bro insists you call him—has eyes that have always mesmerized you. You know that most people aren’t born with mutated genes and unnatural eyes. In posters, old interviews, shitty recordings you had to doctor up after a few centuries of neglect, you could see those beautiful red eyes staring at you. It made you feel less alone before.

Bro’s eyes make you feel even more like a freak.

You made the mistake of walking in on him getting out of the shower once. Before you could apologize or turn around, he’d looked up at you with an open, curious expression on his face. He wasn’t wearing his shades.

You have never been so startled before.

You don’t have the courage to tell him this, but you think he understands.

He sits beside you now, saying nothing, as he lets you cry yourself out.

Your nightmares aren’t getting any better. You close your eyes and you see Derse in flames, Jake’s barely-living body in your arms as you flee. You see Roxy and Jane beyond help, grounded far behind you. You run and run, unable to even shed tears for them because if you start weeping, you’ll never stop, and because if you start weeping, Jake will die, too. You see yourself in the blackness of Sburb space, alive and breathing where there shouldn’t be life or breath. You look at Jake and he’s pale, his normally dark skin oddly pallid now that his heart has finally stopped beating. You press your lips to his, hoping it’ll save him, but you know. You know that you can’t help him anymore.

You convulse suddenly, and Bro’s hand on your shoulder tightens slightly. He grabs you and holds you against his chest. You grip the fabric of his shirt, the skin beneath it. You’re disgusting, you’re sure of it, but you know he doesn’t care. Your eyes leak and your nose leaks and you can’t tell but you’re fairly certain you’re drooling slightly, but his arms don’t loosen.

You think he probably has some nightmares, too. He remembers dying. He remembers fighting for Dave’s life and losing. He remembers watching the glowing, orange thing that was his brother fighting alongside him. He remembers thinking Davesprite died.

He won’t tell you if he does, though.

He just holds you and doesn’t say a word until you’re ready to talk.

“Th-they... Oh God...” Your voice is thick and rough.

“They’re okay, kid. They’re okay.” His hand runs through your hair. The intimacy of the gesture makes you ache suddenly, a sharp pain of loneliness in your heart. Growing up without David there to help you through shit like this means you aren’t accustomed to physical warmth.

It’s more of a comfort to you than you could have anticipated, but it’s painful in its own way.

“Yeah,” you mutter inarticulately. Yeah, they’re okay. They’re okay now that they don’t remember who you are, now that they don’t know you. Being revived meant they had to lose all their memories, start from scratch. You’re not that lucky. You still know them. You can still hear Roxy’s laughter when she first met you, you can still feel her arms around you. You can smell Jake’s skin and feel Jane’s comforting presence. You shake violently and Bro squeezes you.

You pull away from him, your arms barely touching and your bodies still facing one another. You’re not crying as much anymore. The tears will be all but gone, soon. You look up at him and your eyes lock with his. You’re so comfortable with each other that you don’t wear them when you’re alone together. He blinks at you, his expression open and warm and understanding.

You feel an all-too-familiar sensation pooling in your stomach and you let the silence stretch a little too long as you stare.

“This isn’t about to get clinically narcissistic, is it?” Bro’s voice is low, amused.

You smirk, your reddened face no doubt an ugly mess.

“Nah. I don’t want to be responsible for leading a grown man down the path of pederasty.” You lay back and your body slumps into the soft material of the futon. “Although, given your hero worship of Dave, I might be far too late. What’s the status, Bro? You gettin’ handfuls of boy ass to pass the time?”

“You know it, you little shit.” You can practically feel him rolling his eyes as he lays beside you.

You chuckle as a comfortable silence fills the living room. The Daves are asleep and have been for hours. It’s just you and Bro and suddenly you feel compelled to ask him.

“Hey, Bro?”

“Yeah?”

“What if I wanted to?”

“Wanted to what?” You’re certain he knows what you’re talking about, because he’s pretty much you and can pick up on the same cues you can.

You push on anyway.

“What if I wanted to kiss you?”

He doesn’t say anything for a long time. You wonder if he’s drifted off to sleep when he speaks up.

“I can’t really stop you.” Okay, you’re not expecting that. You stop yourself from swallowing, because that would be ridiculously uncool.

“Yeah, you technically can,” you manage.

“Okay. How about you stop dissecting the fucking sentence and accept my invitation for some high octane lip-locking, kid?” He sounds far too amused to play off being frustrated. You laugh softly.

“Fuck you. Don’t call me kid.” You roll to the side, lean over him a bit, and quirk an eyebrow. You’re about to ask if he’s sure when you feel him pull you forward.

The kiss is all teeth and lips and warmth. It’s unexpectedly tender. Your eyes flutter closed. You feel his stubble against your face, his warm breath coming in soft little gusts from his nose, and his hands trailing slow paths up and down your spine. You can feel the way he hesitates, like he wants to touch you so badly but doesn’t want to freak you out. It’s almost cute.

You break the kiss long enough to smirk. “Didn’t realize you were such a baby about fooling around, Bro.”

You probably shouldn’t have said that. You can’t stifle the little gasp of surprise when he hooks a leg around yours and flips the two of you over. The way he looms over you is predatory and undeniably sexy. You wonder if you’ve ever looked like that, if you ever made Jake feel the little shock of fierce arousal that Bro ignites in you. A sadness fills you suddenly, stamping out your desire.

Your face must’ve given you away, because his expression softens. He lifts a hand and strokes your cheek, his fingers coming away wet with tears as he pulls back.

“Get some sleep, kid. I’ll be here when you wake up.”

And with that he’s off of you, his body farther away than you’d like. He arranges himself comfortably upon the futon, his shoulders flat against the cushiony material as he closes his eyes. You stare at him for a moment before following suit.

You feel daring, so you slip an arm around his waist. He shifts slightly and pulls you tight against him, and you feel relief and happiness rushing through you.

You think he’s probably as lonely as you are.

“G’night, Bro.”

He grunts softly in reply and you smile.

Your mind drifts back to Jake. You sigh as you think about the way he used to feel beneath you, his laughing eyes taking in your body. He was hard and wiry then, still a boy though you two played like grown men. He felt wonderful against you when your naked erections would dance awkwardly together, your adolescent bodies straining to achieve climax while your minds told you it was embarrassing to be so bad at it. You eventually found a rhythm that you both liked. You got used to one another. You were never quite able to be what he wanted, but you could at least get him off.

You suddenly wish you’d spent more time trying to communicate how much you love him when you had the chance. You wonder if he thinks he’s still a virgin now that he can’t recall you. You wonder if he’s with Jane and if they’re learning how to fuck one another comfortably as well. You wonder if Roxy has found someone to share her time with now that she’s not underwater and can go meet men whenever she wants. You hope she’s happy. God, you hope she’s happy.

You feel Bro breathe beneath your hands and you press your lips to his chest. You think you feel his breath hitch but you’re not sure anymore. You’re so damn tired and worn out.

You don’t sleep well when you finally knock off, but your dreams are pleasant.

When you wake, Bro is still there, his shades on now that the Daves could walk through at any time. You smile.

You know he’s still there just because you needed him to be. The thought brings a warm tingling to your skin.

“Good morning,” you say.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can find me at reduxcorrelator.tumblr.com, now. If you have any concerns, critiques, questions, or requests, please feel free to leave a comment on the work or a message for me on my blog.


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